


Conversation Piece

by dracoqueen22



Series: Between the Lines [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Edging, M/M, MTMTE Season Two, MTMTE/LL, Sex Toys, Sounding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, aft port, dom/sub themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 12:43:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17284280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: They were still working on the communication portion of their relationship, but at least the chemistry remained the same between them.





	Conversation Piece

**Author's Note:**

> This was the reward and thank you piece for my October supporters!

His door opened with a quiet click.   
  
Ratchet acknowledged the sound, but didn’t look up to greet his visitor. He knew who it was, but pretending he didn’t was all part of the game.   
  
Megatron's energy field was a blistering, chaotic swirl. It was impossible not to notice. Ratchet tasted the lust brimming around him, spicy and sweet and delicious. It tightened in his own belly, a promise of what further fun was going to be had.   
  
It took all Ratchet had not to smirk. He pretended to focus on his datapad while he greedily inhaled the scent of Megatron's arousal. He swept a finger across the datapad as if reading a new page, and instead, activated one of the three toys he'd sent Megatron off with earlier.  
  
There was a stifled grunt, a swift intake, and the arousal spiked palpably, spreading tingles over Ratchet's field. Ratchet fought down a shiver, his internals tightening all over again, his spike swelling within his sheath.   
  
"Have you even moved?" Megatron rumbled as he approached Ratchet's perch, leaning over the chair to peer at the screen of his datapad.  
  
"It's my off-shift. I don't have to be any more active than I want to be," Ratchet said. He slipped through another page without reading it. "How was your shift? Peaceful? Uneventful? Boring?"  
  
Megatron's engine rumbled noisily. "You know very well it was none of those."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
Ratchet wanted to hear Megatron say it, as much as he knew Megatron was too stubborn to admit it right away. That was half the fun and all part of the game.  
  
"Was Bluestreak being chatty again?" Ratchet asked, trying and failing to hide his amusement.  
  
Megatron groaned and leaned over the back of the chair, his arms sliding around it, hands ghosting up and down Ratchet's upper arms. "He seems to think I need his advice," he said, as his fans audibly hitched.  
  
Ratchet's lips twitched toward a smile. This close, his keen audio sensors clearly picked up the low drone of the vibrator buzzing away within Megatron's port.  
  
"But no, that wasn't it," Megatron finished.  
  
"Ah." Ratchet swiped through another page and subtly activated another toy, causing it to buzz to life within Megatron's valve.  
  
Megatron jerked, sharply intaking a vent, and his field spiked. "Is that tale so interesting you intend to ignore me all night?"  
  
"I'm not ignoring you," Ratchet said, innocence flickering in his tone. He tilted his head, watching Megatron from his peripheral vision. "Is there something you want, Megatron? You'll have to tell me. I can't read minds."  
  
A low, low growl echoed near his audial, deeper than the paired drone of two toys happily buzzing away. Megatron's field spiked into another level of heat, burning hot where it pressed in on Ratchet's own. He did his best not to squirm in his chair, arousal pulsing low and heavy in his groin. Only self-control kept his array from baring itself.  
  
"Is that how you're going to play this?" Megatron demanded, his tone low and dangerous, and a shiver ran up Ratchet's spinal strut.  
  
It was a tone many had come to fear. It no longer held sway over Ratchet. He'd heard Megatron beg for him, plead for him, far too many times to fear the tone. He knew what it covered now.  
  
"You haven't convinced me to do anything else," Ratchet said, and pointedly turned another page in his novel. Thankfully, one he'd read before, because he had no idea where he was in the story at this point.  
  
Megatron squeezed his arms, not out of threat, and he ex-vented hotly over the tip of Ratchet's chevron. "You are the spawn of Unicron," he said, and released Ratchet, slipping around the side of the chair until they were face to face. "But I'm sure you knew that already."  
  
Ratchet powered off the datapad and set it aside. He tilted his head, lips curving, bracing one elbow on the arm of the chair. "Insulting me isn't going to get you what you want." For good measure, he activated the last toy, setting the long, narrow rod to humming within Megatron's transfluid channel.  
  
Red optics flashed molten fire at him. Megatron wobbled where he stood, and while he might claim later that slipping to his knees was a matter of seduction, Ratchet knew it for the concession to weakness it was.  
  
"I thought you'd consider that a compliment." Megatron's hands rested on Ratchet's knees, and Ratchet conceded to parting them, letting Megatron's broad shoulders fit between them. They forced his legs wide, baring the heat of his panel to the air. "Still. Allow me to apologize."  
  
Ratchet chuckled. "Apologize and perhaps convince me to give you some proper attention?"  
  
Megatron leaned forward, his gaze holding Ratchet's as he ex-vented over Ratchet's panel before pressing a kiss to it. His hands shook where they cradled Ratchet's thighs, and little sparks of charge danced out from his armor. His field swam in desperate need, but stubbornness kept him from admitting it.  
  
He was gorgeous. Ratchet had never wanted him more.  
  
“Are you going to open?” Megatron rumbled, the tip of his glossa tracing the seam of Ratchet’s valve panel, dampening it.   
  
Ratchet licked his lips. “I suppose you’ve earned that much,” he said, trying to sound bored, but probably failing miserably, given the speed at which his panel snicked aside, his valve fluttering under Megatron’s hot ex-vent. He bared his spike for good measure, giving Megatron the option.   
  
He was curious as to how Megatron would choose.   
  
“Convince me,” Ratchet said.   
  
Megatron’s field swept over him, hot and dizzying in it’s need. He buried his face between Ratchet’s thighs, giving a long, lingering lick to his valve. Tingles spread in the wake of his glossa, and Ratchet sighed happily, canting his hips upward. Megatron caught his anterior node between his denta, glossa flicking the tip of it over and over.   
  
A strangled sound caught in Ratchet’s intake, for all that he tried to appear unmoved by Megatron’s touch. His field licked out, lapping against Megatron’s, tasting the thick desire. A visible shudder rippled over Megatron’s frame, his fingers flexing around Ratchet’s thighs.   
  
He looked up at Ratchet, mouth glistening from Ratchet’s lubricant. “Well?” he asked, tone closer to a growl, his optics molten pools of crimson need.   
  
Ratchet flicked the fingers of his free hand. “You’ve barely put any effort in.” He arched an orbital ridge. “Since when are you the sort to leave a job half-finished?”   
  
The struggle flickered through Megatron’s field and his optics. He sucked on his bottom lip, gnawed it with his denta. He twitched, hips squirming a little, engine audibly revving. Ratchet couldn’t hear the drone of the triple-threat vibrations anymore, but he knew they were there, driving Megatron to distraction.   
  
“You and your games,” Megatron growled, before he bent his head and swallowed Ratchet’s spike to the base.   
  
Ratchet gasped, frame going taut, his spike instantly encased in tight heat. The press of Megatron’s glossa to the underside of it was ecstasy, and his free hand slapped onto the side of the chair, holding tight. He barely kept from thrusting into Megatron’s intake as a sharp throb of need rocketed through his frame.   
  
Vibrations coursed over his spike – Megatron chuckling, humor dancing in his optics. He swallowed, intake rippling around Ratchet’s spike, and then withdrew, head bobbing up and down, up and down, each stroke swallowing Ratchet completely.   
  
Ratchet squeezed his optical shutters, electric fire zapping down his spinal strut and taking residence in his belly. He pressed his mouth to his knuckles, valve rippling angrily around nothing, spike pulsing copious streams of pre-fluid over Megatron’s glossa. The tip of it pressed against the underside of his spikehead, on a sensor nexus Megatron had found and learned to manipulate.   
  
A low moan escaped Ratchet before he could hide it. His face flushed with heat.   
  
Megatron let him slip free with an audible slurp, Ratchet’s spike bobbing and rigid in front of his mouth. “Well?”   
  
Ratchet swallowed over a lump in his throat. “You’re making progress,” he managed, somehow avoiding the croak.   
  
Red optics narrowed. Determination set Megatron’s jaw. “So that’s how you’re going to play then.”  
  
“That’s how it is,” Ratchet said. He tilted his head. Maybe it sounded like a challenge.   
  
Megatron’s field sliced through the room, smacking into Ratchet like a galeforce wind. Another tremor tackled his frame, his fingers creaking where they gripped Ratchet’s thighs. His mouth opened, as though he intended to ask, maybe beg.   
  
Ratchet waited for the words.   
  
They never came. Instead, Megatron swallowed him down again, sucking Ratchet with a ferocity he’d rarely displayed before. Ratchet bucked before he could stop himself, sliding down Megatron’s intake, and Megatron grabbed his hips, held him there. He caught Ratchet’s gaze, encouraging with the burn of his optics, and Ratchet groaned as he rode Megatron’s mouth.   
  
He didn’t have much leverage, not in the chair, but he dug the tips of his feet into the floor, slid his free hand around the back of Megatron’s head and thrust. Soft at first, then deeper and harsher when Megatron’s grip on his hips forced him into it. The volcanic pulse of Megatron’s field spurred him on, and Ratchet’s thoughts spun into ecstasy.   
  
He overloaded between one thrust and the next, the base of his spike pressed to Megatron’s lips as he pulsed down Megatron’s intake. Ratchet’s head tipped back, cry muffled on his knuckles, fingers pressing in on Megatron’s head. Ratchet panted, lights dancing in his optics, as the waves of pleasure cast through his frame before he sank into the chair, Megatron suckling him through the last tremors of his overload.   
  
A low hum buzzed around his spike, and Ratchet shivered. He sucked in a slow vent, forcing himself to let go of Megatron’s head so that Megatron could pull back. Wet puffs of heat teased the head of his half-pressurized spike as Megatron smirked up at him, lips swollen and slick.   
  
“Better,” Ratchet managed, squirming a bit in his chair, where he now sat in a puddle of his own fluids.   
  
“That’s all you have to say?” Megatron demanded.   
  
Ratchet lowered both hands to the arms of the chair, twisting his wrists to spread them pointedly. “Am I supposed to say something else?”   
  
“You’re supposed to give me what I want.” Megatron rose off his knees, which visibly wobbled, and the heat of his field was a heavy swamp against Ratchet’s.   
  
“Was I?” Ratchet tilted his head and dropped his gaze, pointedly ogling Megatron’s quivering panels. “You haven’t told me what you want yet, if I recall.”   
  
Understanding flashed in Megatron’s optics. He growled. “You already know it.” His vents were audibly labored now. He gripped the arms of the chair, inches from Ratchet, and he leaned close enough Ratchet could smell himself on Megatron’s ex-vents.   
  
“Then tell me,” Ratchet murmured as he slid one hand up the length of Megatron’s arm, over his shoulder, up under his chin, until he cupped Megatron’s jaw, sensing the tremble in Megatron’s frame.   
  
It would have been threatening, any other time, to have Megatron looming over him, larger and heavier and stronger, growling at him in a tone that threatened violence, were it not for the undercurrent of desperation beneath it. Power tasted unfairly sweet, and Ratchet licked his lips.   
  
Megatron’s optics flickered. He leaned into Ratchet’s touch, his field sliding over Ratchet’s in a definitive caress. “Please,” he said, the word a raspy request from his vocalizer. “Remove these infernal devices and let me overload.”   
  
It was half-plea and half-demand. It would do for now.   
  
Ratchet curved his hand around Megatron’s jaw and gently tugged him close enough their lips could brush. “All you had to do was ask,” he murmured, and pulled Megatron into a kiss.   
  
He intended to make it gentle, savoring, but he underestimated the depths of Megatron’s need. Perhaps edging the former warlord for the entirety of a shift had not been the wisest course of action, because Megatron kissed him back hungrily, lips and denta and glossa greedily devouring his mouth.   
  
Megatron pressed into him, moaning, climbing onto the chair and taking up what little space remained. It creaked beneath them, threatening, and Ratchet dropped his other hand over the side, groping for the adjustment switch and giving it a quick flick. Obediently, the chair lurched into a larger size, giving Megatron enough room to climb into Ratchet’s lap and straddle him.   
  
“I am asking,” Megatron growled against his lips, hands gripping the back of the chair, hips rutting down and forward, lubricant welling up and beading around the seams of his array.   
  
Ratchet couldn’t hear the buzzing of the devices over the rumble of Megatron’s engine, but when he slipped a hand between Megatron’s thighs, he could feel the stern vibration. Megatron’s panels radiated heat, almost blistering to the touch.   
  
“My, my, my,” Ratchet commented as he rubbed the panels, and Megatron shuddered atop him, vents hitching. “You’re a little warm, Megatron. Have you had dirty thoughts today?”   
  
“I will end you,” Megatron near-snarled, but it lost the terrifying effect when a low whine immediately followed, and he ground down on Ratchet’s fingers. “Release me!”   
  
Ratchet nibbled on his bottom lip to hide his grin. Whenever Megatron dropped into Villain Trope of the Week, he knew he’d driven his partner to distraction.   
  
He offered pity and triggered the magnetic clamps of the three devices, allowing Megatron’s panels to open as a result. They flung aside immediately, and Ratchet’s fingers became soaked in lubricant.   
  
Megatron moaned and his hips juttered forward, thrusting hopefully toward Ratchet. “Finally,” he ground out.   
  
“You are nowhere near as subordinate as you ought to be,” Ratchet teased. He rested his hand on Megatron’s hip and slid the fingers of his other around Megatron’s valve rim, teasing the swollen derma. The buzz of the vibrators tingled across his fingertips.   
  
He slipped a finger inside, hooked it around the device, and pulled it free, setting it aside as a fresh wave of lubricant dripped down into his lap. The sound Megatron made lit Ratchet’s lines aflame with fresh desire. Hot puffs of heat ghosted over Ratchet’s face as Megatron wobbled on his lap, a tower of a mech who trembled and pleaded.   
  
“That’s all right. There’s still time to learn,” Ratchet murmured. He curled his hand around Megatron’s spike, giving him a light stroke and squeeze around the vibrating sound piercing his transfluid channel.   
  
Megatron’s backstrut arched. He sucked in a sharp, wheezing vent, and his field flared with suffocating need again. “Let… let me...” His words trailed off, head hanging a bit as his arms shook.   
  
“Soon,” Ratchet promised and slid a finger into Megatron’s valve with slick ease, the flutter of Megatron’s calipers desperate and hungry as he instantly soaked Ratchet with lubricant. “You’re so ready for me, Megatron.” He added two more, thoroughly slicking his fingers. “Have you spent all day thinking of me?”   
  
Megatron gritted his denta, making a cable in his intake twitch. “You made it impossible to do otherwise,” he ground out.   
  
"Tell me." Ratchet rubbed his thumb over and over Megatron's node, gleefully consuming the sight of Megatron panting and riding him. "Did you excuse yourself to a quiet corner? Did you touch yourself out of desperation?"  
  
Megatron groaned and gripped the back of the chair, the metal creaking under the strength of his fingers. "You said I could overload."  
  
"I did," Ratchet conceded. He rubbed harder, firmer, tighter circles, tracing the swollen nub over and over, until Megatron's hips matched his movements. "But you also knew that didn't mean I would stop." He chuckled. "Made it worse, didn't it?"  
  
Primus, he wished he could have seen that, Megatron holed up in a closet, frantically rubbing his panels to get off, since he couldn't open them, not with the magnetic toys keeping them shut.  
  
Megatron panted, optics drifting to half-mast.  
  
"You overloaded and it only made you want it more, didn't it?" Ratchet continued, licking his lips as Megatron's movements became faster, his spike dribbling pre-fluid in a fresh stream, his valve dripping down on Ratchet's lap. "All you could think about was coming back to me, letting me take care of that ache."  
  
A thin whine eeked out of Megatron's intake. His optics fully shuttered, head dipping, vents coming in sharp bursts. His field was volcanic, but it clung to Ratchet's, both out of need for pleasure and need for comfort. Ratchet reached back, tangled his own field around it, offered soothing pulses --  _I'm here, I've got you, You're safe_. He knew what Megatron needed.  
  
The chair crumpled under Megatron's grip.  
  
Ratchet slid two fingers back, curling them up and into Megatron's valve, rubbing them mercilessly over that bundle of sensors right behind his anterior node, on the inner rim of his valve.  
  
"I want you to overload for me now, Megatron." Ratchet rubbed incessantly on Megatron's anterior node, his other hand resting on Megatron's hip, a warm weight spilling comfort against the rattling armor. "Give me your pleasure."  
  
A full shudder wracked Megatron's frame, setting his armor plates in a fluttering wave as charge spilled out from underneath it. He panted, shoulders hunching, hips dancing arrhythmically on Ratchet's fingers.  
  
"I can't," he groaned, and there was a resounding crack as something in the chair gave beneath his grip.  
  
Ratchet licked his lips, devouring Megatron's expression of naked need, the flex of his frame, the ardent want in his field. "You will," he ordered, tone sharp and commanding, even as he sent the release trigger to the toys, deactivating the energy sink.  
  
Megatron jerked as though he'd been struck by lightning, his entire frame curving forward, his forehead pressing to Ratchet's shoulder. He groaned, long and low, as his valve clamped down on Ratchet's fingers, and his spike spurted over Ratchet's belly in hot stripes of transfluid, jettisoning the tiny rod Ratchet had inserted hours ago.   
  
The ecstasy took his frame in waves, as Ratchet knew it would, and Megatron ground his denta as his frame went still, arrested by it. Sparks of blue charge lit over his armor like fireworks, and his field sank into the embrace of Ratchet's, pulsing affection and gratitude and sheer, unadulterated bliss.  
  
Primus, he was intoxicating.  
  
Ratchet swallowed over a lump in his intake, arousal simmering like a smelting pool in his belly. His array twitched, and it was only thanks to his recent overload that he didn't tumble Megatron to the floor and take him swiftly, rutting until he found his completion.  
  
Megatron slumped against him, and Ratchet gentled his touches, stroking his nodes lightly through the last tremors of overload. He stroked Megatron's hip, setting his field to a soothing hum that seemed to cause Megatron to curl into him, like a sparkling seeking comfort. His valve loosed the tight clamp, and Ratchet withdrew his fingers gently, as Megatron made a soft noise of disgruntlement.  
  
Unfairly cute.  
  
He nuzzled into Ratchet's neck, and Ratchet let him rest for a moment, get his bearings, while he stroked Megatron's armor.  
  
"Megatron?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Berth?"  
  
Megatron hummed an affirmative. A simple poke to his field found Megatron floating in a light subspace. Good for him.  
  
"You're lucky I'm a medic," Ratchet grunted, and with Megatron's limited help, he managed to get the large former warlord off the chair and somewhat on his feet. He half-carried, half-supported Megatron to the berth.  
  
He was delightfully obedient in the wake of a good scene, and there was a lack of tension in his field and in his frame. It made him seem younger, less weighted down by his scars. Maybe to some, Megatron didn't deserve that peace. Ratchet couldn't say. Inside every villain was a hero with a different story, after all.  
  
Megatron clambered into the berth, sprawling onto the plush surface, and Ratchet knew better than to go too far. He had all the cleaning supplies he needed in a compartment, so he pulled himself up after Megatron, just as a hand flopped out in search of him.  
  
"Yes, yes, I know how cuddly you get after," Ratchet grumbled, but there was no heat to it. Megatron, he knew, wasn't entirely present. But he seemed soothed by Ratchet's voice, so Ratchet had taken the habit of talking as if Megatron responded.  
  
Megatron's hand rested on his thigh as Ratchet knelt by him, pulling cloths and cleanser out of his compartment. He talked as he worked, recounting the novel he'd been reading with half-sparked interest.  
  
The spike channel rod had already been expelled. Ratchet would retrieve it from the floor and clean it later. He’d removed the valve toy earlier, so he’d recover that from his subspace later as well.   
  
All that remained was the aft plug, so Ratchet gently eased it free. Megatron made a noise of disappointment, his rim contracting in the plug’s absence. Ratchet stroked him gently, soothing the sting, and Megatron’s hand on his thigh flexed. His head turned toward Ratchet, acknowledging him with half-shuttered, hazy optics.   
  
Ratchet kept talking, even as he cleaned Megatron of their activities. He wanted to linger, his fingers caressing the plump, pleasure-swollen derma of Megatron’s array. He was so delightfully pliant post-scene. It took all of Ratchet’s self-control not to rev Megatron up again.   
  
Ratchet tossed the dirty cloths in the vague direction of the laundry drop and pulled himself upright, leaning back against the wall. His hip made contact with Megatron and by the time Ratchet was reasonably comfortable, Megatron had curled into him, tossing an arm around Ratchet's waist and tucking his face into Ratchet's side.  
  
Ratchet obediently lifted an arm and slid it around Megatron's chassis, his fingers gently stroking Megatron's back. He pulled out his datapad, plugged into it so he wouldn't need both hands to change the page, and started to read. He kept in constant physical contact with Megatron as he did so, monitoring his partner's mental state with a delicate touch of his field.  
  
It took about twenty minutes or so, and three chapters of reading, before Megatron stirred. He shifted beneath Ratchet's hand, his engine kicking into a different gear.  
  
"You are evil," Megatron rumbled.  
  
Ratchet chuckled. "That's rich, considering who I'm talking to."  
  
Megatron snorted.  
  
Ratchet closed the datapad and set it aside. "Enjoyable then?" he asked.  
  
"I think my overload speaks for itself," Megatron said, dry. He pulled himself upright, sitting next to Ratchet on the berth, legs stretched in front of him. "Ah. I ache."  
  
"That's what tends to happen over a period of extended edging." Ratchet grinned and hit Megatron with a quick scan. "No damage. It should right itself after some recharge." It squeezed his spark, as it always did, when his scan pinged back all of the lingering, permanent damage in Megatron’s frame.   
  
Megatron groaned. “It feels like Metrotitan stepped on me.” He tipped over, leaning shoulder to shoulder against Ratchet, the light contact exchanging warmth between them.   
  
“I’m not surprised.” Ratchet rested a hand on Megatron’s nearest thigh, stroking it gently. “You didn’t answer my question.”   
  
“Didn’t I?”   
  
“You evaded it.” His palm slid down to Megatron’s knee and back up again. “Obviously, you liked the overloads. But did you like how you got them?”   
  
Megatron grunted. It wasn’t an answer.   
  
Ratchet waited. Perhaps not patiently, but he waited nonetheless. Megatron was still warming up the idea of talking about their scenes afterward. That old Decepticon masochism kicking in, Ratchet supposed. Megatron didn’t like admitting when he wasn’t fond of something, seeing it as a failure or a weakness on his part.   
  
Then again, he wasn’t great about talking over the things he wanted either. Talking wasn’t Megatron’s strong suit. They were still working on that, too.   
  
He stroked Megatron’s knee, let their energy fields twine together, and contemplated pulling out his datapad once more.   
  
“I enjoyed it,” Megatron finally said, after a moment, but there was hesitation in his words.   
  
“But…?”  
  
Megatron scrubbed at the side of his face. “I would like to try pain again.” He turned his head, face buried a little against Ratchet’s shoulder. “You could be more forceful.” His field flickered with heat, embarrassment or shame? Ratchet wasn’t sure which. Maybe both.   
  
Ratchet hummed thoughtfully. Their first and last session with pain had not gone so well, and they hadn’t tried again, especially not since they were still tentatively labeling their relationship as it was. But if Megatron felt comfortable enough to ask, Ratchet was comfortable enough to try once more.   
  
“Do you have something specific in mind?”   
  
Here Megatron sighed, and it sounded aggravated, with a hint of amused embarrassment. “Bluestreak has offered me some resources. I’ve selected a few.”   
  
“I like resources,” Ratchet replied kindly, careful to keep his tone even, lest Megatron think he was mocking or disingenuous. “Show me and we can talk about it.”   
  
“Talk,” Megatron echoed, on a mutter, his voice muffled against Ratchet’s armor. “No more talking. I need recharge.”   
  
Ratchet chuckled and patted him on the knee. “Not tonight, Megatron. I meant later. Go back to recharge.”   
  
“I think I will.” Megatron grunted and pulled away, flopping down into the berth until he found a comfortable position on his belly. Unsurprisingly, one that pressed himself to Ratchet’s side, his head embraced by a pillow, but one arm thrown over Ratchet’s upper thighs as though determined to keep him in place. “Stay.”   
  
“It’s my room,” Ratchet pointed out with a laugh.   
  
Megatron’s engine rumbled. “Then that means you’re staying.”   
  
“Yes, I guess it does.” Ratchet’s spark gave a fluttering squeeze of warmth, unexpected though it was, at the sight of a fearsome Decepticon warrior, who made himself so vulnerable in the berth of a mech who had once been his enemy.   
  
Fingers curled around Ratchet’s thigh, and a puff of warm ex-vents tickled the side of his hip. “I have first shift,” Megatron murmured as his field settled around Ratchet’s like a request for an embrace. “Don’t let me recharge over.”   
  
“Sir, yes, sir.”   
  
“I’m going to let that slide.”   
  
Ratchet snorted and flicked on his datapad, queuing it back up to the novel he’d been reading earlier. He wasn’t tired by any means. Besides, he greatly appreciated quiet moments like this, Megatron resting beside him, their fields delicately intertwined.   
  
It reminded him of the choice they’d made, the definition they’d offered one another. A relationship. Partners. Together.   
  
It was, so far, one of the best decisions Ratchet ever made.   
  


*

 


End file.
